


Invisible string

by Justalittlechaos



Category: The Old Guard (Movie 2020)
Genre: Angst, But Not Much, But they're fine, Canon-Typical Violence, Crusades Era Joe | Yusuf al-Kaysani & Nicky | Nicolò di Genova, Getting Together, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Torture, M/M, POV Alternating, Period-Typical Homophobia, Period-Typical Racism, Pre-Canon, Protective Nicky | Nicolò di Genova, Rescue, Temporary Character Death, Wikipedia levels of accuracy, yes its a folklore title live with it
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-20
Updated: 2020-09-26
Packaged: 2021-03-07 20:13:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,177
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26553391
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Justalittlechaos/pseuds/Justalittlechaos
Summary: In the second Crusade Nicolo and Yusuf meet again.
Relationships: Joe | Yusuf Al-Kaysani/Nicky | Nicolò di Genova
Comments: 5
Kudos: 50





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I am a white person from a Christian background, so if I make any mistakes regarding culture or religion it is not intentional so please tell me so I can correct it. 
> 
> English is also not my first language so if you find any mistakes let me know.
> 
> The idea for this just wouldn't leave my head, I hope you guys enjoy it.

Nearly fifty years had passed, since Nicolo had returned from Jerusalem. In the end he had been glad to leave the holy city behind. In fact, he thought, he would be very happy if he never set foot in it again.

When he’d joined the other Pilgrims, he had notions of righteousness, giving the holy city back to the good Christians it belonged to.

After the city was taken and he’d awoken in a field of corpses he knew that this was not right. He had looked over the masses of dead bodies all around him and deep down he knew that this was not, could _never_ be right. Who in their right mind would want this? All this suffering. Nicolo did not know what had possessed him to think it right.

He had died, for his God, for his church and for his cause. Now he’d risen from the dead. Was he still human or had he returned as something else? What was he to do with this strange second life of his?

Dying was a cold feeling. It left Nicolo shaking and confused. At fist he had been scared that this was to be his hell. This seemingly endless field of dead men, the screams of the innocent, being slaughtered by the rest of the army in the distance. He did not join the army as they looted, raped and killed their way through the city. All he wanted, as selfish as it was was to turn around and leave. He did not want to be a part of this anymore. This senseless slaughter was not what he had wanted. But he couldn’t for two very good reasons.

One. There were innocent people being slaughtered and if he could just save one person from this hell on earth maybe, just maybe he could find meaning in this strange second life he’d been given.

Two. The man that killed him, and who he had killed in turn, sinking his sword into his gut, was charging at him with the very sword that had killed him before.

They had killed each other many times, in more brutal ways, the longer they went about it, before he woke up alone, his enemy nowhere to be seen. That last fight… Nicolo had surrendered. Tired of killing and dying. He wondered if that had been a mistake. Were they meant to fight forever? Night had fallen and Nicolo, not having any better plan went back to the camp.

Luckily for Nicolo there was no one who had seen him die. He explained his absence and bloody clothes, with an excuse about getting knocked unconscious and lying on the bloodied ground. He went back into the city the next day. He managed to get away unnoticed from the other Pilgrims and helped a few people escape the city through one of the smaller gates, which he knew to be poorly guarded.

Women and children, hiding in the remains of torn down buildings. They had been so scared when they saw him and their looks of fear would never leave him, as long as he lived.

Later when it came to the question who wanted to stay in the holy land, Nicolo was one of the first to say he’d be going home as soon as possible.

He returned to Genoa, though not to the priesthood.

His sister Isabella had been widowed in the time he was gone and he was happy enough to help her run the estate she had inherited from her husband, since she was in no hurry to remarry. She laughingly told him that her children were enough trouble, no need to bring a husband into it.

It had been twenty good years before people began to notice that he never looked a day older then when he’d returned from the holy land. Whispers, when he passed by and looks from across the street left him feeling on edge. He would have to leave soon he knew. Nicolo did not think that he would age as other people do. Forever frozen at thirty years old. If he could not die of mortal wounds, it stands to reason he would not die of old age either.

Isabella had noticed too.

After dinner, when the two of them were washing the dishes, she asked him. “Nicolo, I am two years younger than you are and yet I have started to count gray hairs, thanks to my children no doubt. But you remain unchanged. How can that be?”

He knew the question would come sooner of later but he still was not prepared to answer it. “I don’t know. In Jerusalem, I- I died at the gates.”

“Nicolo!” she exclaimed, obviously not believing him or thinking him mad.

“I’m not insane! Look!”

He dragged one of the dinner knifes across his arm, making his sister gasp and hurry to find a cloth to stem the bleeding. He gently grabbed her wrist, with his other hand and urged her to look at the wound that was already closing.

She reached out with trembling hands and swiped gently across unblemished skin.

“This is a gift, Nico. A miracle.” she had insisted.

He had some trouble believing it. Remembering the atrocities that he help commit. He should never have gone to Jerusalem.

His sister, ever so kind told him to leave Genoa, to find happiness elsewhere. Her sons were old enough to take care of their aging mother and so he left. He traveled east, staying in different towns, for a few years, working on farms and as guard for Caravans. and finally reached Constantinople. The city was beautiful. He wanted to stay here for some time. Wanted to see how long he could go without questions being raised about his ever youthful appearance. Maybe he could come back after a few decades, pretend to be a relative of himself.

Now nearly half a century later he wanted to go and hide somewhere when he heard of another crusade.

The screams, the flames that consumed ancient, beautiful buildings. His nameless counterpart, who cut him down without mercy. It all came back, to the forefront of his mind.

It was strange but Nicolo, more often than not found himself thinking about the enemy soldier. During their last fight he had gotten close enough to see his own hopelessness and desperation in the mans eyes. He remembered stumbling backwards, wanting to get distance between them. He’d been so tired. The other man regarded him quietly, as Nicolo tried to communicate.

“I don’t want to keep fighting.” he’d said, in Ligurian.

The other man didn’t seem to understand him so he tried again in Latin. Again no reaction. Frustrated and tired Nicolo opted for showing rather then telling and simply dropped his sword. To which his enemy responded with running him through with his own sword.

Both of them didn’t seem to sustain any lasting injuries. He wondered if the soldier was as ageless as him, probably, he thought. Going by his confused look he didn’t have any more answers than Nicolo about their predicament. Still it would be nice to be able to talk to someone about his abilities, who would not send him straight to the madhouse.

Not that that was likely to happen. If they ever saw each other again, they would undoubtedly fight before any sort of conversation could happen. In the last few years he’d thought more and more about meeting the other man again and decided to learn Arabic and Greek. On the off chance that they would talk instead of fight when they met again.

When. Not if, he decided. He wanted to talk to him. If only to apologize. Not that any apology could ever make right what Nicolos people had done.

So when he heard of an army coming to Constantinople he made a decision. For one he could not in good conscience let innocent people die again. He would try to help minimize the damage as much as he could. His gift must be good for something. Maybe protecting people from the newly dubbed Crusaders was just that. Another reason was that this was most likely his chance to see the other Immortal again.

When the army came to Constantinople Nicolo joined them.

* * *

“Do you think we’ll see the holy city?” asked Alfonso, in terribly accented Greek.

Nicolo wanted to reply, _I sure hope not,_ but instead he offered a “Maybe, were going to Damascus after all.”

“True enough, those infidels will not be able to stand against us.”

He said it with such conviction, Nicolo had to bite his tongue to keep from replying. His years traveling had taught him that people of other faiths were nothing like he’d been told. They were kind and friendly, more so than some Christians he could name.

He’d managed to keep mostly to himself, but being too reclusive would draw attention he didn’t want, so he was friendly to the men he rode with.

Alfonso, the young Frenchman, who rode next to him, was the youngest son of a Duke of some kind who had volunteered to go. Edward, was English, a priest, before joining the Crusade. Nicolo was reminded of himself, if only a bit, due to circumstance, since Edward was also a massive prick. And Fernando, which whom he got along best, since he was half Italian.

Those three were the ones with which he made camp in the night. Fernando was the oldest of the three at thirty two, the other boys both being nineteen.

Logically Nicolo knew that all of them had reached manhood, but to him they felt so incredibly young. He was nearly eighty years old at this point, far older than he had ever expected to be.

They were another two days from Ephesus when Edward told them about something he heard from some other soldiers.

“Apparently Otto of Freisings men captured a demon,” he told them excitedly “They can’t kill it, so they are going to take it to the pope, so he can strike it down. They separated from their army to travel to Rome.”

Nicolos blood ran cold. “What kind of demon?” he asked.

“Dunno, they are on the other side of the camp though if you want to go and take a look.“ he challenged to the others, laughing.

“I’m not going near that thing! Best let the priests do their job.” replied Fernando.

Alfonso agreed “Yeah, I mean, who knows what kind of curses that foul beast could bring upon us.”

A demon they can’t kill. Could it be? It must be. Nicolo knew how fast people could condemn others for being different. If they’d seen his counterpart revive there was no doubt in his mind they would have taken him for a demon. He knew the other Immortal was a very good fighter, but he had probably been hopelessly outnumbered.

“How many of Freisings men are with the demon?” he asked as they prepared their bedrolls for the night.

“’Round seven. I think.” answered Edward. “Why?” his eyes narrowing suspiciously.

“Just wondering, that’s all.”

* * *

Nicolo waited until he was sure everyone was asleep before he moved across the camp. In the time he waited he came up with a relatively simple plan. He would leave his own horse behind, but take most of his supplies with him. He donned his sword and armor once more and made sure to steal a bag full of supplies too. If they were taken from Edward, for no other reason that Nicolo really didn’t like him, it was no ones business.

Taking his horse around camp would bring to much scrutiny upon himself. It was bad enough he was sneaking around in full armor already. He would steal one of the horses closer to where the other Immortal was being held, hopefully he would be able to assist Nicolo in their escape from the camp but Nicolo also knew that the crusaders would have been anything but kind to him, so he might have to get them out of here alone.

He reached the tent which he thought held the other Immortal easily enough. The banners giving it way was part of the German army. He stayed in the shadows of the tent opposite to it, fairly sure that the two guards in front hadn’t seen him. He even spotted horses close by. For once, it appeared luck was on his side.

He couldn’t get inside unseen, but how to best approach? Pretend to be a priest and offer help with the demon? If he just killed the Guards outside the next patrol would sound the alarm, rapidly shortening their time to escape. Probably best to lured them inside with him and kill them there.

He walked calmly towards the guards, who regarded him with mistrust.

“Hello, I heard you had captured a demon, from one of the men. I was a priest before I came to help the Crusades, may I offer my help?” he asked in French. He’d been working on learning the language but was quite sure he still made a few mistakes.

The smaller one of the guard visibly relaxed, while the other asked something in German. They had a quick conversation in German before the smaller one turned to him and replied in French “We are not sure what you can do, we had priests with the demon before, but we are grateful for your help. I’m Frederik, my friend here is Albert.”

“I’m Nicolo. What can you tell me about the demon?” he asked, trying to keep calm. He was here, he was sure of it.

“It doesn’t talk to us. It did in the beginning when we caught him, we think he spoke the language of those savages, but now it doesn’t anymore. Killed eight of our men before we subdued it. We tried Foot roasting, but it still wouldn’t confess it’s nature, the wounds just healed! You won’t believe it until you see it! We gave it the Heretics Fork, do you have any other ideas?”

The man looked so hopeful Nicolo wanted to retch. The torture he described wasn’t enough for him? It was abdominal what they had done! He never liked the way people were punished by the church, even before his unexpected resurrection. Foot roasting was common for people who opposed the church, as was the Heretics Fork. A collar with an iron fork, sharp ends pushing into the chest and chin. The thought that they had put that vile device on the other man made him furious. He was probably speaking Arabic, not that these idiots would understand it. It was a beautiful language and had taken Nicolo years to master.

“I’m afraid without seeing the demon I will not be of much help.” It took all his effort to not snap at the guard. “Maybe you could be kind enough to show me?”

“Of course, Albert -“ he said something in German and then walked into the tent, beckoning Nicolo to follow him, while Albert remained where he was. Not ideal but he could work something out.

Nicolo entered the tent and all thoughts left his brain, staring blankly at the sight before him.

It was indeed the man that had killed him in Jerusalem all those years ago. He was sitting on the ground, leaning against a wooden pole, his hands tied behind his back. His clothes were blood soaked ruins, that hung of his too small frame. The Heretics Fork was forcing him to lean his head back against the pole but the sharp ends were still digging into the skin beneath his chin and into his chest, blood continuously flowing sluggishly down his neck. Dark circles under his eyes, spoke of little sleep and his frame and too dry skin told a tale of starvation and no water. His eyes were open, fixed on Nicolo but showing no reaction.

There were two other soldiers in the tent, watching their captive with contempt. They glanced at the newcomer, a few questions in German were shot at Albert who answered quickly in a reassuring tone. Nicolo payed them no attention, focused on how best to get out of here.

He’d have to get rid of the guards, and hopefully get out unseen. It would be best to take them out as quietly as possible. If they alerted the camp there would be no hope of getting away. The guard at the entrance was also a problem. Maybe slice through the tent and get out the back?

“Have you been here all night?” he asked.

“Yes, the others of our squad take over in a few hours.” answered Albert for the others, who apparently did not speak French.

Good that means he’d have some time until they discovered their prisoner missing.

“May I test the invincibility that you spoke of?” he said, gesturing to his sword.

Albert nodded and translated for the others, who also gave their assent, wicked smiles twisting their features. Nicolo drew his sword and saw the man tense. The guards were standing to his left and he thought how helpful they were being by standing so close to each other and so perfectly in his range. Albert was a bit further back but he should be able to get him. Or in the next move.

Nicolo carefully held his sword left to the mans neck, body in position to strike, looking into his eyes, hoping to convene some sort of understanding. That he was not going to hurt him. And then he moved.

Although not in the direction everyone was expecting. He swung upwards, turning his body as he did so, putting his entire weight behind the motion. He took the first ones head clear of, nearly did so with the one standing next to him, leaving only a bit of the neck still attached. Albert had a few seconds to jerk back in shock, although not enough to scream. With the tip of his sword Nicolo cut his throat, took a fast step forward, putting a hand over his mouth. His eyes were full of betrayal but Nicolo did not care.

The guard who was at the entrance must have heard something, because he came inside a question on the tip of his tongue. Nicolo let go of Albert, letting him drop to the ground and before the other man could draw his weapon cut his throat, so he would not scream. Cleaning his sword on the dead mans clothes he sheathed it again.

Turning to the prisoner, who was regarding him with a shocked expression. He took a small knife from his belt, kneeling in front of him. Nicolo carefully cut through the collar, and flung the torture device across the room in anger. He looked as the holes in his skin closed, leaving no trace behind.

He looked at the mans face, trying for what he hoped was a reassuring smile “My name is Nicolo.” he said in Arabic,”I’ll help you escape.” The other man did not answer, so Nicolo moved around him, to cut his hands free were they were tied to the pole. The rope had cut into his wrists, so tight had they bound him. It made Nicolos blood boil. He cut through the bindings, as soon as the man was free he began to slump to the side. Nicolo caught him before he hit the ground, turning so he could hold him while looking at his face.

Nicolo had been lucky to avoid starvation and thirst of that kind so far, but it seemed that it had more effect on them that he would have liked. It was logical, when he thought about it. Their injuries may heal but the hunger and thirst remained unless they ate or drank something. Not an easy death to escape from.

The other man was trembling in his arms and Nicolo could feel how thin he was. He took the waterskin from his supply bag and held it to his lips. The man drank greedily, when Nicolo moved to put the waterskin back he let out a small whine, but if he drank more he’d make himself sick so Nicolo apologized but put it away.

The other man was looking more aware now, but still a bit dazed. Nicolo moved to help him on his feet, as soon as they were standing, holding on tightly to each others arms, the mans legs gave out under him. Nicolo caught him, getting an arm under his knees and the other around his back and hefted him up against his chest. It wasn’t the easiest way to get him to the horses he had spotted earlier, but it was the fasted.

“Yusuf.” it was a quiet murmur, that Nicolo almost didn’t hear.

He looked down to the man in his arms surprised. His eyes were closed and his breath was coming fast and uneven but his lips moved again.

“My name is Yusuf.”

“Yusuf.” repeated Nicolo, softly. Finally. Finally he knew his name.

Yusuf did not appear the have much more energy left and did not speak again.Nicolo waited a moment before stepping out the tent and quickly moving over to the horses a few feet away. He managed to get the other man on top of it before quickly mounting behind him.

Great. Now he just needed to get away from camp. They were already near the edge of it, a few more rows of tents before endless wilderness. The patrols at the border of the camp could be easily outpaced by the horse but Nicolo rather they didn’t notice them at all. Yusuf seemingly having lost consciousness, was leaning against Nicolos chest, being held in place with one arm while he held the reigns with the other.

Thankfully people stayed in their tents and did not stop Nicolo from reaching the ends of the camp. However, here is where his luck ran out. A patrol came just as Nicolo was leaving into the wilderness.

They began to shout and Nicolo urged the horse into a faster pace, as they sped of into the night. An arrow soared past his head and Nicolo cursed. He did not dare turn around and look if they were pursuing him, since it would required him taking his eyes of the terrain. Another arrow flew past him, he urged the horse even faster. After a while the shouting faded into distant noises and he was sure that they would not come after him. For now anyway. Once they discovered the bodies in the tent where their demon was supposed to be they’d be after them.

He let the horse slow to a steady pace and considered his options now. He would have to find shelter first, he decided. Once Yusuf woke up he would find out what the other man wanted to do and make his plans from there. He doubted that a large party would come after them. The army wanted to continue on, Nicolo didn’t think they would spare a lot of men to go after what could be a ghost story. How many men did believe in demons after all, if they had not seen one for themselves. Probably not many, Nicolo figured. The rest of Freisings men would come after them for sure. Edward said there were seven of them, so three left. Should it come to another fight, Nicolo and his companion would surely stand better chances than them.

Yusuf let out a low groan, trying to sit up straighter. Nicolo held him back against his chest, so he did not accidentally fall off the horse. He collapsed back against Nicolo, letting out a frustrated noise.

“It’s okay, I lost them a while back. We’re safe.” he assured him.

Yusuf hummed an agreeing noise but otherwise stayed silent.

Nicolo rode for another hour before he found a good place to make camp for the night. He steered his horse back in the direction where he hoped Constantinople was and found a place where the mountainside fell of to a cliff and decided to stay there for the night.

Yusuf had lost consciousness again, so Nicolo gently lowered him forward on the horse, dismounted while making sure he would not fall off and then lowered him into his arms, and carried him a few steps before laying him on the ground.

Nicolo secured the horse to a nearby tree and made to lay out his bedroll. He carried Yusuf over to it, draping his thin blanket over him. He sat nearby, staring of into the night and waited for the morning.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There are descriptions of torture in this one, I tried to keep it as mild as possible but be warned.

Yusuf had joined the Seljuk Army in hopes of preventing another massacre. The news of a second Christian army coming to this land to take it from people who had lived there for generations, had left him angrier than he’d ever been before. Wasn’t it enough for those barbarians to slaughter them once? The blood had coated nearly every street, building burning chaos everywhere. Hadn’t they already captured their holy city? Why couldn’t they just leave the people alone?

Yusuf wondered if _he_ would come to this land again. The Genovan invader that he’d killed at the gates.

He remembered the feeling of unforgiving steel slicing through armor and flesh. Waking up with a gasp, finding his wounds healed. Sitting up and seeing that the city had fallen to the Franks. When he’d spotted the man that had killed him, standing on the battlefield, looking at the burning city, he was filled with rage. How dare he? How dare he come here to butcher Yusufs people? What right did he have? He charged with a yell, the fight beginning anew.

After many deaths, for both of them the Frank had thrown his sword into the dirt, talking to Yusuf in his bastard language. Genovan, he thought. He’s heard bits of it while trading but never picked it up. Yusuf had run him through again, hoping that this time the man would stay dead. Tired of fighting Yusuf left.

Killing invaders without a care for his own life, stealing a horse from them, escorting people out of the city.

After years trading in Cairo and across the Mediterranean he once again joined an army to help push back the new tide of Christian invaders from the north. His family was long gone, taken by disease or time.

He’d been sent ahead as a scout and got to close to the German army. A group of about fifteen men spotting him. He’d tried to get away but they’d blocked the way to his horse. He killed as many as he could before their numbers proved more than even he could handle alone.

The invaders had surrounded him, killing him with a sword through his back. He’d collapsed into the sand choking on his on blood as death claimed him once more. He came back to life choking, trying to dispel the blood from his lungs. Unfortunately the invaders were still nearby. He heard shouting before a sword was thrust into his back again and he was gone again. When he came back to life, the invaders were regarding him closely, watching as his skin fused back together without leaving any mark behind.

He had tried to get up but they made quick work of killing him again, this time by cutting his head off. Yusuf had been scared when the strike landed against his neck. Could he come back from that? He didn’t know. A part of him hoped not. He was older than any man he had ever known. Surely his life was meant to end before this age. He was so alone, not wanting to get to close to anyone, since he knew that their passing would hurt him too much.

But it was not to be. He woke up with a splitting headache, groaning, trying to get his bearings.

He wondered, had his head grown back or did it come back to his body and attach it self again?

Then he realized that his arms were being grabbed, twisted behind his back, robe coming around his wrists. In a wild panic he moved, desperately trying to get away. He kicked out, hitting someone, tried to get his arms free of the hands holding him down but sharp pain exploded at the back of his skull and he lost his orientation for a few moments. He tried to move again only to find his body being held down by what must have been at least five men.

His wrists were tied together painfully tight, still lying on the ground, the men were arguing in their own language. If he could only get away from them he would be fine, he thought. He could survive the desert if he got away.

But he was still pinned down and before he could form any sort of plan he was being hoisted up to his feet. He kicked out again, hitting the man in front of him in the stomach. He threw his head back, hearing the satisfying noise of breaking bone. Another man ran up to him, sword drawn. He managed two steps back before he was grabbed again and the sword buried it self in his chest.

When he next came to he was being dragged by his arms, legs sliding along the ground and the sword still in his chest. He was conscious for a few agonizing seconds before everything faded to black again. The same thing repeated it self before finally he could breath again.

He was lying on the side, people talking above him. Blinking, trying to clear his head, he realized that his arms were still tied, as well as his feet.

The voices quieted. Looking around, he saw five men staring down on him. Four he vaguely recognized from the fight, the fifth was an older man, clean clothes, looking highly out of place between the dirty soldiers. High ranking probably.

“Catholic dogs, once I get free I’ll kill you as slowly as possible.” he spat in their faces. His reward was a kick to the stomach.

They would as him questions, in their language and in Latin. Even though he understood bits of the Latin his only responses were insults. He doubted they understood but felt that they understood his meaning.

The same seven men took turns guarding him. He cataloged them as the small one, the dumb one, the ugly ones and the brutish one.

It had been days when they came in with burning torches, the fact that it was only midday, did not make Yusuf feel reassured. They questioned him again, this time Yusuf stayed completely silent, glaring at them the whole time. When they become frustrated, they brought the torches to his skin and all he could do was scream.

By now Yusuf was sure it had been almost two weeks and he’s sure that he died of thirst at least once. His throat is dry and his skin feels like sandpaper. Hunger is a constant companion, despite his growing resemblance to a corpse none of the soldiers seem to be inclined to feed him.

The disorientation is worse though, in Yusufs mind. Sometimes he closes his eyes and when he opens them he knows that he must have fallen asleep, since its clear by the rotation of guards or change of sunlight that time has passed. His thoughts become more sluggish, struggling to get through the haze that laid itself over his mind.

They had been traveling north. Often enough he woke slung over a horse, tied down so he could not fall of. When they stopped he was tied to a pole, in the tent they set up for the night.

His ever shrinking hopes of escape further diminished when they reached another army encampment.

They came back into the tent and Yusufs eyes landed on the thing in the small ones hand. A leather band with a double ended fork. He saw the buckle in the leather band and realized it was a collar.

One of the men grabbed his hair, pulling his head back. Apparently they learned from the last headbutt. He still tried to get away from the grip, but had no luck as the collar was fastened around his neck. The ends of the fork digging wickedly into his skin. He leaned back as far as he could to the pole but the metal still dug into his chest and chin painfully.

The soldiers laughed and Yusuf let his mind wander again. It was getting harder to stay awake for longer periods of time, he noticed dimly. He wanted to sleep but every time his head dropped the torture device dug deeper into his skin and shook him awake again.

Sometimes he heard the soldiers talking before it faded to background noise again. He mindlessly stared at the tent entrance. His thought felt slow and he couldn’t hold on to them for long.

People came into the tent again. There was a new person with them. Yusuf stared at the new man. He knew him. He was sure. But from where? The answer evaded him at every turn and he was frustrated that his mind was betraying him like that.

He had blue eyes, he noticed. He knew them. That shade of blue, almost grey. A memory of that face twisted in anguish and desperation, soaked in blood but Yusuf did not know what to do with it.

The stranger – _no not a stranger_ – drew his sword and held it to his neck. Yusuf knew he would not die but it would still hurt.

The man looked at him with an expression he could not decipher and his mind finally supplied him with the memory attached to those blue eyes.

He remembered him at the gates of Jerusalem. He had been right, he thought bitterly. The immortal invader had come back to kill him again.

He saw the mans arms tense in anticipation for the strike but instead of taking his head off, like he expected, the man turned and killed his captors instead. Yusuf gaped in shock as the soldiers were cut down. Did he want Yusuf for himself to kill him over and over until it stuck?

He turned from the bodies back to Yusuf, kneeling before him. The collar vanished from his neck.

“My name is Nicolo. I’ll help you escape.” he said in lightly accented Arabic. Escape? He wanted to believe him but it did not seem likely. He was an invader. He killed him so many times over Yusuf had lost count. But… He’d stopped hadn’t he? Dropped his sword, surrendering to him. But maybe… maybe he’d changed. _Please_ , he thought, _please let it be so_. If only for the reason that he was so very tired. He felt hollow, wanting nothing more to get away from here. Away from Invading armies, captivity, torture and death. 

The robes were cut from his arms, with nothing keeping him to the pole anymore he felt himself crumble to the ground. Strong arms came around him, those blue eyes looking into his again. Then there was water. The terrible dryness of his throat disappeared, everything narrowing down to the sensation of cool water filling his empty stomach. When the water vanished he let out a needy sound that he would deny until his dying day.

Yusuf helplessly followed Nicolo up as he stood, holding on to his arms, not knowing what else to do. The room was spinning and he felt his knees buckle. What ever energy had cleared his thoughts for a while was rapidly retreating. The haze that clouded his mind returning with new force.

He wasn’t on the ground though. Shouldn’t he be there? He’d been falling, why hadn’t he hit the ground? He blinked, trying to see what happened only to find himself staring into Nicolos chest.

Yes, his name was Nicolo, he remembered. He should answer, he thought.

“Yusuf.” he got out. “My name is Yusuf.”

He thought he heard his name coming from Nicolos lips, but it was difficult to be sure. He closed his eyes for just a second and when he opened them again, he was sitting on a horse, leaning back against someones chest. He tried to get away from that someone behind him, wanting to something- he didn’t really know what, but just something. An arm was splayed across his chest was holding him back and he didn’t have the energy to fight it. His mind still felt a bit slow and he was endlessly annoyed at that.

The one riding behind him spoke, telling him he was safe and he connected the voice to Nicolo.

Nicolo who had saved him from the invaders. Yusuf wanted nothing more than to ask questions but with sleep still tugging at the corners of his mind he decided that it could wait until he woke again.


End file.
